


Broken Road

by thestorygirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Blow Jobs, Castiel Has Self-Worth Issues, Castiel Has a Dog, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, Depression, Drifter Dean, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Endverse-esque Cas, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Worth Issues, Service Animals, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6098227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestorygirl/pseuds/thestorygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester’s father always cautioned him against settling down or getting close to anyone. Throughout their childhoods, Dean and his little brother, Sam, were always on the move, never staying in one place for very long. The one exception to that rule was their father’s oldest (and only) friend, Bobby Singer. It was with Bobby that Sam and Dean were able to have at least some semblance of a childhood. Years later, with their father dead and the brothers estranged, Dean comes back to Sioux Falls to help out in Bobby’s garage while Bobby recovers from rotator cuff surgery. Dean is initially thrilled when he realized the house he’s rented is owned by none other than the famous novelist, Castiel Novak. Dean met Castiel years earlier at a book signing, and had been harboring a crush on the shy, earnest man with the love of Vonnegut ever since. Dean soon discovers that the years haven’t been kind to Castiel, and the man whose house he’s sharing is almost completely unrecognizable from the man he met all those years ago, in more ways than one. And so begins Dean's journey of forgiveness, acceptance, and learning what it truly means to be part of a family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Available immediately, 1 bedroom apartment off of main house. Shared kitchen. Rent to be discounted in exchange for assistance completing home repairs. Tenant must be single and childless. Pets welcome. Absolutely no children!_

Dean read over the Craigslist ad for what was probably the thousandth time as he waited at the counter of the diner. The kid thing was weird. Not that it really applied to him, considering he didn’t have kids. Or pets, for that matter. It was still weird, though. Dean hoped that the landlord wasn’t a pedophile in recovery or something.

Still, if that were the case, it would certainly discourage Sam from coming around with his rugrats. Sam seemed to think that Dean’s visit meant that there would be some kind of brotherly reconciliation, and continued to cling to the idea no matter how many times Dean insisted that he was in Sioux Falls for one reason and one reason only… and it certainly wasn’t to make nice with Sam after he’d abandoned Dean and their father ten years earlier. Dean had come to help Bobby out, and nothing more.

Dean read the ad for the thousand and first time. Bobby’s surgery was in just a few days, so the immediate availability was a plus. He could stay in a motel, sure; it was how he lived for the most part anyway, but Ellen put her foot down when he’d made that suggestion. She wanted Dean to stay with her and Bobby, insisting that it would help him save money and also be more convenient for the auto shop.

But staying with Ellen and Bobby didn’t mean just staying with Ellen and Bobby. It meant staying with Jo and her army mechanic husband and their infant son and toddler daughter. Not to mention the fact that Sam and Jess lived less than a mile down the road. Dean knew that Sam and Jess would be over all the time with the twins, because Sam felt guilty as hell that his law firm wouldn’t give him more time off to help at the garage, and super nurse Jess would definitely be popping in and out to make sure Bobby was following his recovery plan.

No, if he was going to spend any length of time in this godforsaken town, he damn well was going to need a place of his own to escape to at the end of the day. The problem, Dean had found, was that most apartments wanted a recent employment history. They also wanted him to sign a year’s lease. Dean was worried enough about surviving three months in this place, let alone an entire year.

Dean hoped that he could work something out with this apartment. He didn’t care if he had to rebuild the whole fucking house from the ground up, as long as it got him a place to stay that wasn’t Bobby and Ellen’s.

The bell above the door dinged as the door opened, and Dean turned around on his stool to find a petite brunette in a kick-ass leather jacket sauntering through the door. She scanned the diner, her eyes eventually coming to rest on Dean.

“Dean Winchester?” she said.

“Nice work,” said Dean.

The woman shrugged.

“You were the only one sitting alone, and the only one who showed any interest when I walked in,” she said drily. “It’s not rocket science. Meg Masters.”

Dean extended his hand for her to shake, but she ignored him and slid onto the stool next to him, pulling out a file folder full of papers from her bag as she did so.

“Are you the owner of the apartment?” asked Dean.

“No,” said Meg. “I work for the owner. He’s entrusted me to find him a suitable tenant. So far, we’ve had pretty slim pickings.”

Dean wasn’t sure if that boded well for him or not, and decided not to comment. He sipped his coffee and waited while Meg skimmed the documents in front of her and glared at the waitress when the latter timidly asked if she’d like anything to drink.

“I seem to be missing your work history,” she said.

“No,” said Dean. “It should be right there. Singer’s Garage. I started there yesterday.”

Meg arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Yesterday,” she said. “Well that just fills me with confidence. Where were you working before?”

“I’ve been traveling a lot, so I haven’t really had anything long term,” said Dean. “But my current job is full-time and the pay is decent. I won’t have any trouble covering the rent.”

“And what made you suddenly decide to settle down, Mr. Winchester?”

“My… uncle… is having shoulder surgery. I’m going to run his car repair business until he can go back to work.”

“Rotator cuff surgery recovery time is between three and six months. What are your plans after that?”

“Three months,” Dean couldn’t help correcting. “It won’t be longer than three months.”

“Okay,” said Meg. “After your uncle’s miraculous recovery from shoulder surgery, what are your plans?”

Dean didn’t know what to say. He shouldn’t have blurted that thing out about the three months, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. Before this, one month was the longest he’d ever spent in any one place, not counting the times he and Sam had been dumped at Bobby’s when they were kids. Bobby’s was the closest thing he’d ever had to a home, but that didn’t make him any more eager to stay in Sioux Falls one second longer than necessary.

“Do you need me to sign a year’s lease?” asked Dean, deciding not to beat around the bush.

“That depends,” said Meg. “How handy are you?”

“Excuse me?” said Dean.

It was a pretty strange way to be hit on. Meg seemed like kind of a bitch, but she was definitely hot. Dean’s last few lays had been men, so it was time to change it up a little. And if it would get him the apartment….

“Gross,” said Meg. “I can practically hear you thinking, and that’s so not what I meant. Did you not read the ad? It specified that the tenant must be proficient at—“

“Right, right,” said Dean hurriedly. “Yeah, I can work on a house. My uncle… the one who’s having surgery… he taught me all about that stuff when I was a kid.”

“Good,” said Meg. “Mr. Novak will be requiring help replacing most of the windows and repairing trim, re-insulating the attic, and some patching of the roof. There are also some minor repairs to be taken care of in the apartment itself. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Sure,” said Dean. “But, if you don’t mind me asking, why doesn’t Mr. Novak just hire a contractor?”

“That’s Mr. Novak’s business,” said Meg smoothly, before moving onto the next question. “Are you single?”

Dean winked.

“Sure am.”

Meg gave him a long look, and the air in the diner suddenly turned so frosty that Dean swore he could see his breath.

“Do you have any children?” she asked.

“No.”  

“Do you have any family members who would be visiting with children?”

“No,” said Dean. It wasn’t really a lie. Sure, both Sam and Jo had kids, but it wasn’t like they would be visiting. Not if Dean had anything to say about it, freaky landlord rules aside.

“Do you have any friends or acquaintances who would be visiting with children?”

“No!” said Dean. “What is with this guy? Is he some kind of perv?”

“Of course not,” said Meg. “Is the policy against children a problem for you?”

“No,” said Dean. “It’s just weird, is all.”

“Mr. Novak is a little eccentric,” said Meg. “So, if that’s an issue—“

“It’s not,” said Dean. “The only thing that would be an issue is if you’d need me to sign a year long lease.”

“Because you’re only going to be in town for three months,” said Meg.

“Exactly,” said Dean.

Meg pulled out a cell phone.

“Would you excuse me for a moment?” she said.

“Sure,” said Dean.

Meg walked over to the door, considered the rain that had started to fall while she and Dean had been talking, and turned around. She hovered near the cash register as she made her call. Dean kept his eyes trained on his own phone, absently scrolling through news articles as he strained to hear Meg’s half of the conversation.

The low murmur of Meg’s voice, as opposed to actual words, was the only thing that reached Dean’s ears, and he jabbed at his phone in frustration, nearly sending it flying off of the counter. Meg hadn’t seemed too impressed with his answers to her questions. But, if it was a definite no, then why not just tell him? Why mess around with making a call to whom Dean could only assume was the homeowner?

Meg’s raised voice cut Dean’s musings short.

“I asked him three goddamn times about kids!”

Dean risked a glance in Meg’s direction, and saw that she’d started drumming the long, blood red fingernails of her free hand against the countertop.

“ _Yes_ ,” she said, irritation plain in her tone. “Add that to the short term and the fact that he’s not going to remain in the area after and you’re golden. Now, can we just finish this so I can get back to my other clients? You know, the ones who are actually publishing?”

There was another moment of silence while Meg listened to whatever was being said to her and rolled her eyes.

“Fine,” she snapped, and swiped her thumb across the screen.

Dean turned his attention back to the latest diatribe against the president (how the hell had he wound up on Fox News?) as Meg approached.

“The apartment is yours if you want it,” she said.

“I want it,” said Dean.

“Great.”

Meg flicked through the papers in her folder and set a stack in front of Dean.

“Look these over and sign on the line,” she said, reaching for her phone as it buzzed.

Dean started to read. The first page seemed like a pretty standard lease… not that he’d know, never having signed one in his life. The second page was a little different, stating that Dean had been truthful with Meg, and that any falsehoods discovered would result in immediate termination of the lease. The third page was even stranger. It was a non-disclosure agreement, stating that Dean was forbidden from discussing anything about the house or its owner to the media or any resident of Sioux Falls. Breaking the agreement would result in Dean’s immediate eviction from the property.

“For real?” said Dean, holding up the document in question.

“You asked about the hired help,” said Meg without looking up from her phone. “Castiel has had several bad experiences in that area. He’s hoping that the threat of eviction will be enough to prevent any gossip.”

Dean barely heard the last part.

“Castiel?” he repeated. He’d only heard the name once before. “Castiel Novak? _The_ Castiel Novak? The writer?”

Meg groaned.

“Fuck me. You’re a fan. I knew this was too good to be true.”

“I’m not… I wouldn’t say I was a fan,” said Dean.

He was totally a fan. He even had a book signed by the man in his car. Books were cumbersome and inconvenient when living on the road. Castiel Novak’s books were the lone exception to that rule. Dean carried his three favorites with him everywhere. Meeting Castiel at that book signing years ago had been one of the best moments of Dean’s life.

Meg snatched the papers away from Dean.

“Deal’s off,” she said.

“Hey!” protested Dean.

“No fans. That’s another of Castiel’s rules.”

“Okay, I like the guy’s books,” said Dean. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to go all _Misery_ on him and hold him hostage. I won’t mention anything, I swear. I really need this place.”

Meg started cramming things into her bag, grumbling.

“Asshole hasn’t written a word in seven goddamn years and he still has fans crawling out of the woodwork. But can I find an audience for the wannabe romance author who’s cranking out novels like a one-woman assembly line? Of course not.”

“Seven years?” said Dean. “I thought the last book came out four years ago.”

Meg’s dark eyes flashed.

“Oh, and you say you’re not a fan!”

“Alright, maybe I am,” said Dean. “That doesn’t change the fact that Castiel needs a tenant, and I need an apartment, and you need to get back to whatever rock you crawled out from under. Let’s just forget I said anything. I can be cool.”

Meg paused in her packing and looked down at the slightly crumpled papers in her hand.

“You are the only person who even came close to filling Castiel’s ridiculous requirements,” she said. “And really, the fact that you’re going to be gone in three to six months—“

“Three,” said Dean.

“Is perfect. Castiel can get the work done on the house, you can get your temporary place to live, and then the two of you can part ways and never have to see each other again. It’s win-win.”

Meg smoothed out the papers as best she could on the countertop.

“Have you ever met Castiel?” she asked.

“Once,” said Dean. “At a book signing about… eight or nine years ago.”

Meg’s lips thinned.

“And what’d you think of him?” she asked.

Dean shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he said, sensing that saying the guy was smoking hot was the wrong direction to take. “He seemed nice enough. A little awkward. Kind of shy.”

Meg nodded.

“Let me warn you, you’ll find he’s just a touch different from the last time you saw him, okay? So don’t be too shocked.”

“There was an accident, right?” said Dean, struggling to remember. “I think I read about it somewhere… was it a car accident?”

Meg’s expression softened, and for a moment, she looked almost human.

“Yeah,” she said. “It was a car accident.”

She slid the papers back over to Dean.

“Sign there. If you’re sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

Eight years earlier, Barnes & Noble, Chicago, IL

_It was completely by accident that Dean wound up last in line to get his book signed. It was a spur of the moment decision to run back out to the Impala and exchange the new book he’d just purchased, the one the event was promoting, for his old favorite._

_Dean didn’t pay too much attention to Castiel Novak’s interactions with the other fans as the line that started out snaking back and forth across the available floor space of the bookstore and out the double doors, dwindled. Instead, Dean thought about Castiel’s talk about the new book. The beginning had been a little awkward, with the man forgetting to remove his rumpled trench coat before starting to speak. But as Castiel settled in, it became clear just how passionate he was about his work; how he enjoyed speaking to fans and answering their questions._

_Dean hadn’t asked any questions. He’d been too focused on Castiel’s thoughtful responses to each questioner; the way his initial self-consciousness seemed to fall away as he warmed to a topic, his hand gestures growing more expansive, his eyes gleaming. And, as if that weren’t enough, Dean’s attention was also drawn to the way his unruly dark hair kept falling into his face, and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Dude was tall, too, almost as tall as Dean, and lean with muscle, as Dean discovered when Castiel removed his suit jacket midway through the Q &A session. He couldn’t help but fantasize about the miles of tanned skin still hidden beneath that white dress shirt and askew blue tie…_

_“Next.”_

_Dean started, nearly dropping his book. The person in front of him had just stepped away, and Castiel was beckoning him forward, an amused half-smile on his face._

_“Sorry,” said Dean, sliding his book across the table. “Wasn’t paying attention.”_

_“That’s quite alright,” said Castiel, his voice a low growl that Dean would have thought was due to all of the speaking he’d just done, if he hadn’t personally witnessed Castiel’s voice sounding exactly the same at the beginning of the talk._

_Castiel looked down at the book in front of him, and Dean hastened to explain, wondering if what he’d done was even allowed._

_“I bought a copy of_ The Battle _,” he said. “But_ Fallen _has always been my favorite.”_

_“So I see,” said Castiel, picking up the paperback and turning it over in his hands, his long fingers brushing over the rip on one corner of the cover and tracing the tattered spine. Dean felt his face flush, and wondered if Castiel was insulted by the mistreatment of the book._

_“It’s, uh… I take it everywhere with me,” said Dean. “And I travel a lot, so it’s kinda beat up.”_

_Castiel looked up, and Dean was momentarily stunned into silence as the man’s impossibly bright blue eyes fixed on his._

_“There’s no need for explanation,” said Castiel, still holding the book. “My copy of_ Mother Night _is in much the same condition. It’s the mark of a well-loved book, I always thought.”_

_“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be,” quoted Dean, surprising even himself. Was Castiel’s very proximity making him smarter?_

_Castiel continued to stare at him, a slow smile spreading over his face._

_“A fellow Vonnegut fan,“ he said. “Well, sir—“_

_“Dean.”_

_“Well, Dean, you obviously have good taste in literature,” said Castiel, opening_ Fallen _to the title page. He seemed to be about to say more, but was interrupted by an excited shriek._

_“Daddy!”_

_A small, blonde figure zoomed around bookshelves and displays. Castiel half-turned in his chair just in time for the kid to launch herself into his lap._

_“Claire, you know you’re supposed to stay with Mommy until Daddy’s finished working,” he said, his attempt at sounding stern not fooling anyone, least of all the little girl. She grinned up at him, her eyes the exact shade of blue as his._

_“There you are, Claire! I turned my back for two seconds!” A slim, blonde woman rounded a corner and skidded to a stop at the table’s edge. “Sorry about that, Cas,” she said, while also nodding apologetically in Dean’s direction._

_“It’s fine, Amelia. I’m almost done, here,” said Castiel, reaching out with his free hand to give hers a squeeze. “Perhaps Claire would like to help me sign this book.”_

_“Oh no,” said Amelia, for Claire had taken advantage of her parents’ inattention and grabbed a Sharpie, and was in the process of laboriously printing her name over the publishing house’s logo._

_“Look!” said Claire, proudly indicating her handiwork. “It says, Claire.”_

_“I see that, bug,” said Castiel, gently removing the marker from her hand. “My apologies,” he said, raising his eyes to Dean’s. “I’ll replace it.”_

_“Don’t worry about it,” said Dean. “Now I’ve got two Novak autographs for the price of one.”_

_Castiel gave a relieved smile at that, and damn, it was a good thing the man’s wife and daughter were right there; otherwise Dean probably would have done something stupid like ask him to go for a drink. Amelia peered at book’s cover as Castiel settled Claire more comfortably in his lap._

_“_ Fallen _,” she said, draping an arm over Castiel’s shoulder. “Excellent choice. That’s always been my favorite. It was the first book Cas wrote after we were married.”_

_Castiel smoothed a hand over the open book._

_“Claire, do you think you could help me keep the book still while I write?” he said, placing a kiss on top of the girl’s wispy blond hair. “Can you put your hand right here on this page?”_

_Claire slapped a pudgy hand onto the area her father indicated._

_“Speaking of excellent choices, Dean also has an interest in Vonnegut,” said Castiel, starting to scribble on the inside cover with his reclaimed Sharpie._

_“Does he?” said Amelia. “Maybe it’s a good thing Claire and I interrupted, then. Otherwise you two might have been here all night.”_

_“No doubt,” said Castiel, capping the Sharpie and fanning the air over the page to dry the words before closing the book._

_“It’s been a pleasure,” he said, handing the book back to Dean._

_“Back atcha,” said Dean._

******

Sioux Falls, SD, Now

 

Dean eased the Impala to a stop at the curb in front of the run down old Victorian. He fished the scrap of paper on which he’d written the address out of his pocket, double-checking that he was at the right house. He was. Dean let out a low whistle through his teeth. The place needed more than new windows and some roof patching. The entire roof looked like it needed to be replaced, for starters. Faded paint peeled from the siding, and the front lawn was an overgrown tangle. A wheelchair ramp connected the front porch to the walkway below.

Dean grabbed his phone, still studying the ramp. He vaguely remembered reading about the accident years earlier, but couldn’t recall any specifics. Meg hadn’t mentioned anyone else living at the house, and as he thought back to his encounter with the entire Novak family at the book signing, Dean’s heart sank at the idea of Amelia and Claire not having survived. He could certainly understand Castiel’s reluctance to be around children if he’d lost his family.

He Googled _Castiel Novak Car Accident_ , and was surprised to find only one article documenting the case. All it said was that Castiel Novak, bestselling author, had been critically injured when his car was struck by a drunk driver. The driver of the other vehicle walked away with a few bruises. Near the end of the article, there was a brief mention of Castiel’s wife and daughter, stating that they sustained minor injuries and were treated and released that same day.

Dean put the phone away and looked once more at the house. There certainly wasn’t any evidence of the presence of a child anywhere. But if Claire and her mother survived, as indicated by the article, where were they?

“Guess I’m about to find out,” said Dean, reaching for the duffle bag that contained most of his possessions. His copy of _Fallen_ rested on top of the bag, and Dean flipped open the front cover and reread (for about the millionth time) the message Castiel had scrawled nearly a decade earlier. As was the case every time he read the short note, he felt his lips curve up in a pleased smile.

_Dean,_

_I know I can count on you to not judge me for quoting another author at my own book signing. From one Vonnegut aficionado to another, “Only in books do we learn what’s really going on.”_

_Castiel J Novak_

Dean carefully tucked the book into his bag before pulling the strings closed. He hefted the bag over his shoulder and exited the car. Most of what he owned was contained in that one large bag, and the rest was concealed in the Impala’s trunk. Dean decided to bring the duffle inside, first, and unpack the car later, if at all. The instinct born of his father’s training to always be ready to move on, to never be in one place for too long, warred with the knowledge that he was going to be stuck here for the duration of Bobby’s recovery.

A series of deep, intimidating barks sounded from within the house as Dean rang the doorbell. Dean took an unconscious step back. It wasn’t that he didn’t like dogs, exactly, but he’d never really had the occasion to spend much time around them. It was Sam who spent years of their childhood begging their father for a puppy, but John Winchester always shut him down swiftly and firmly. There was no room in their nomadic lifestyle for attachments to either other people or dogs. It was the three of them against the world, and if Sam didn’t like it, he was welcome to get out. Dean didn’t think any of them actually expected Sam to call John’s bluff. But on his eighteenth birthday, he did just that.

The barking abruptly ceased, and Dean refocused his attention, eager to avoid being drawn back into memories of that terrible night when Sam walked away from their family.

“Door’s open!” called someone from within the house, and even after so many years, Dean recognized the gravel voice as belonging to Castiel Novak. He made his way inside, pausing in the entryway to allow his eyes to adjust to the interior gloom.

Movement from his left caught his attention, and Dean turned to face Castiel navigating his wheelchair out of the kitchen; a tall, sleek Doberman Pinscher at his side.

“Dean Winchester, I presume?” said Castiel, extending his hand.

“Yeah,” said Dean, telling himself that he wasn’t disappointed that Castiel hadn’t recognized him, that it would have been weird if he had. He took a few steps closer, eyeing the dog warily.

“I’m Castiel. Don’t worry about Tar, he doesn’t bite unless I tell him to.”

Dean grasped Castiel’s hand and shook, still not quite able to tear his gaze from the dog. It was kind of creepy, the way it just stood there staring at him, so still and focused.

“Tar’s a cool name,” said Dean, trying not to let his nerves show. “From Toni Morrison? _Tar Baby_?”

Castiel dropped Dean’s hand and wheeled himself a little closer.

“I see we have a reader in our midst, Tar. Be careful. Readers can be very dangerous. They’re always thinking, questioning. Too damn nosey for their own good.”

“Just making conversation,” said Dean, hastily taking a step back.

Castiel responded by guiding the chair a little more into Dean’s space, the dog remaining at his side in a perfect heel. The change in position allowed Castiel’s face to be illuminated by the dim overhead light, and Dean took another involuntary step back, his brain screaming for him not to stare, to look somewhere, anywhere else.

Dean had been prepared for the wheelchair. Even without Meg’s hinting, the ramp out front was a dead giveaway. He’d thought that was the extent of it. He certainly wasn’t expecting the guy to be missing half his fucking face.

“The dog’s name is Scimitar. Like the sword,” said Castiel, and okay, maybe his face wasn’t technically gone, but the entire right side was a mass of burn scars, extending from just beyond his hairline (Dean could see the messy, dark hair was thin and uneven in that area) and disappearing below the collar of Castiel’s shirt. The shell of his ear on that side had been reduced to a shriveled lump, and there was only scar tissue at the corner of his mouth where his lips used to meet.

His eyes hadn’t changed. Still that deep, brilliant blue. They were bloodshot, though, and there was a hardness to the expression that definitely hadn’t been there before.

“Sexy, right?” said Castiel.

Dean gave himself a mental shake, realizing that he’d utterly failed at his resolve not to stare. It would have been easier if Castiel was some stranger he’d never seen before, if he didn’t have that remembrance of their previous meeting, of Castiel’s shyly smiling, perfect face right at the forefront of his memory.

“And, believe me, if you think what’s up there is good, just wait ‘till you get a load of what’s under here.” Castiel winked and started unbuttoning his light blue, froofy hippie top.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Dean, holding up his hands. “Just stop. Please.”

“Your lips say no, but your eyes—“

“Look, I’m sorry for staring, okay?”

Castiel’s fingers slipped from his third button, and he started laughing, a harsh, hollow sound, leaning his head against the back of his chair.

“The look on your face,” he said, between chuckles. “Priceless.”

Dean dropped his hands.

“What are you, stoned?” he said.

Castiel rolled his eyes in Dean’s direction.

“Generally, yeah.”

Castiel pivoted his chair, knocking into Dean’s duffle in the process. It tipped over, and the items on top slid out of the opening, the copy of _Fallen_ among them. Dean reached for it, but Castiel was faster.

“Tar, pick up and give.”

The Doberman lunged for the book, snatching it from beneath Dean’s very fingers, and presenting it to Castiel. Castiel examined the book in much the same way he had at the signing.

“What did I tell you, Tar,” he murmured. “They’re very dangerous, readers.” He opened the book and stared at his and Claire’s signatures on the inside cover.

Dean opened his mouth, but closed it after realizing he had no idea what to say. He shouldn’t have to apologize for owning a book, for Christ’s sake. Castiel raised his eyes to meet Dean’s and, without warning, tore off the front cover and what looked to be most of the first chapter. He ripped the pages in half once, twice, three times, and scattered the resulting confetti onto the floor around him.

“That’s not who I am, anymore,” he said, tossing the rest of the book back at Dean with enough force that it stung as it hit him in the chest. “So keep this garbage out of my sight.”

Castiel turned and started wheeling himself back toward the kitchen. He paused at the threshold, fished out a joint from the front pocket of his still partially unbuttoned shirt, and lit it.

“Apartment’s upstairs,” he said, through a mouthful of smoke.     


	3. Chapter 3

The apartment was nice. The furnishings were simple and practical, and the space was clean and uncluttered. There were no knickknacks scattered about, or artwork on the walls. Everything was painted white. It looked almost sterile. For Dean, used to motel rooms in varying degrees of tacky, with the same generic art on the walls, and the condition of the bathrooms ranging from merely unsanitary to downright unhygienic; it seemed like paradise.

The only bad thing about the place was that there wasn’t a self-enclosed entrance. In order to reach the apartment, Dean had to trek through Castiel’s living room, ever wary of the giant dog and of Castiel himself.

The pieces of the first chapter of _Fallen_ still lay scattered over the rug as Dean prepared to made his second trip up the stairs, weighted down with the contents of the Impala’s trunk. He paused, set down his guitar case, and scooped up the scraps of paper with his free hand, keeping an eye out for Castiel the entire time.

Castiel never appeared.

Dean stuffed the papers deep into the pocket of his jacket and resumed his trip up the stairs. It didn’t take him long to put things in order, and afterwards he sat down on the edge of the bed, unsure of what to do. He was kind of hungry, but venturing down to the kitchen carried the risk of running in to Castiel, his dog, or both, and Dean wasn’t quite ready for that just yet. He dug around in his duffle bag and unearthed what would prove to be a stale bag of potato chips. It would do for the time being.

After he finished eating, Dean crumpled up the empty bag and pitched it in the trash. He washed the grease from his hands and undid the snaps of his guitar case. He’d found the old, beat-up acoustic guitar at a thrift store soon after Sam left. Neither he or Sam had ever played any kind of musical instrument. The closest Dean had ever been to a guitar had been in the mosh pit at concerts. And those were electric guitars.

Maybe that was what had drawn Dean to the guitar in the first place. That it didn’t remind him of Sam in the slightest. He could concentrate, late at night, after John passed out, on learning the chords. It was a distraction. No matter how much John complained about how much of a waste of space the thing was, and how they should just leave it on the side of the road, Dean refused to give it up. It was the first, and only, time he’d ever defied his father. And John, perhaps feeling the loss of Sam more than he’d ever admit, eventually let it go.

Dean fluffed up the pillows on the bed and leaned back, cradling the guitar. All of that was a long time ago, and he’d long since progressed past plucking out random notes and the beginnings of melodies to teaching himself whole songs. He began strumming _Smoke on the Water_ , humming along as he did so. He’d become adept at letting the music fill his mind, even a simple song like _Smoke on the Water_. He focused on the notes and chords, and did not think about Bobby going into surgery in just a few hours, or of having to see Sam eventually, or of the fact that he’d apparently made an enemy of his landlord on the very first night.

******

It was well past midnight when Dean’s stomach finally got the better of him, and he left the apartment to check out the shared kitchen, a pack of Top Ramen (chicken flavor) in hand. He crept down the stairs as quietly as he could. The living room was dark and empty. Dean paused, listening. The house was dead silent.

Dean moved through the hallway, stopping when he noticed that the kitchen light was on. He stood, unmoving, in the hall for over a minute, straining to hear evidence that Castiel was up and about. He heard the hum of the refrigerator, and the wind rustling the leaves of the tree just outside the open window, but that was it.

Dean’s stomach rumbled, and he continued onward. He’d just barely cleared the doorway to the kitchen when a low growl halted him in his tracks. He squinted, the light seeming overly bright after the gloom of the living room and hallway. Castiel’s wheelchair was positioned directly across from Dean, at one end of the small, square, wooden table. Castiel was slumped over on the table top, amidst a sea of empty beer bottles and orange prescription vials, his head pillowed on his crossed arms. A laptop computer, screen dark, was pushed off to the side.

It reminded Dean a little too much of certain scenes from his childhood. John had never been into prescription drugs, though. And his pass-outs were rarely solitary, quiet affairs. John had enjoyed an audience.

Out of habit, Dean moved toward the table with an idea of clearing away some of the mess, and to make sure Castiel was still breathing, at least. Another growl, louder this time, sounded from the vicinity of the table. Dean paused, looking around. On his second pass over the room he found the dog, lying beneath the table at Castiel’s feet, its dark eyes fixed steadfastly on Dean.

“Shit,” Dean muttered, under his breath. He changed direction slightly, aiming for the sink, and the microwave just beyond, instead. But as that course still brought him closer to the table, albeit indirectly, the dog continued to growl. Dean paused, and the dog fell silent.

“Um… Mr. Novak?” Dean called, softly.

Castiel didn’t move.

“Castiel?” tried Dean, raising his voice.

Still nothing.

“Hey, Asshat!” Dean said, just short of shouting. He didn’t want to wake the neighbors. “Call off your dog!”

Castiel didn’t even stir.

******

After a few hours of restless sleep, Dean woke to the gloom of an early fall morning, hungrier than ever. He showered, reveling in the lack of mildew and in the excellent water pressure, brushed his teeth, and dressed. He peered out the window, surveying the neighborhood. He’d been too distracted the previous day to pay much attention. It was older, and most of the houses were a little run-down. Castiel’s property was easily the largest from what Dean could see, occupying approximately three lots worth of space.

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught Dean’s attention, and he turned to see the Doberman running full out up the hill just beyond the house. For an instant he wondered how the dog could possibly have escaped the house, and if he was going to be expected to try and corral the thing and bring it back. But then Castiel appeared not far behind, propelling his chair up the steep incline with arms that Dean, even from the second story window, could see were strong with muscle.

The dog reached the top of the hill and turned to wait for Castiel, bouncing and prancing alongside the chair once Castiel caught up to him. Castiel ran a hand over the dog’s back, ending with a slap on its rump that sent it into further paroxysms of joy. Castiel must have given a command, then, for the dog’s demeanor suddenly changed, and it settled in to trot calmly at Castiel’s side as they continued on toward the house at a more relaxed pace.

Dean turned away from the window and unearthed a package of Pop-Tarts from his duffle bag. It wasn’t his ideal breakfast fare, but it would do for one meal. He planned to do some shopping on the way back from the garage, once he had an idea of how much available space Castiel had in his refrigerator and pantry.

Upon entering the kitchen, Dean found the kitchen table spotless, with no evidence of the mess of beer bottles and pill vials of the previous night. The laptop had been closed, and was plugged into a charger with a long cord that drooped down from the table to attach to a wall outlet just inches from the floor.

Dean wondered if the clean up was for his benefit or not, eventually deciding that it didn’t matter. He slipped his Pop-Tarts into the toaster and opened the refrigerator. After the scene last night, Dean wasn’t surprised to find an entire shelf full of beer. A few bottles of water were scattered about, and that was it. There was nothing else in the fridge. The pantry was similarly barren, with just a box of instant rice, several cheap bottles of liquor, and a forty-pound bag of dog food. A bunch of bananas lay on the counter next to a brightly painted mason jar with the words “Guilty Pleasure” emblazoned across the lid in electric pink squiggle letters. Dean unscrewed the lid and peered inside. The thing was stuffed top to bottom with weed.

“Found the good stuff, I see,” came Castiel’s rough voice from behind him, startling Dean so that he nearly dropped the jar. He hastily placed it back onto the counter and turned around.

Castiel’s wheelchair was situated in the doorway. Castiel watched him, elbows braced on the armrests and hands folded over his middle. His hair was a windblown mess, standing straight up in places, and his T-shirt was soaked in sweat. The dog stood expectantly at the refrigerator.

“You don’t seem particularly guilty about it,” said Dean, indicating the writing on the jar. Castiel’s eyes never left Dean.

“My ex-wife used to stash her chocolate in there after our daughter was born,” he said. “I somehow wound up with it. Keeps pot fresher than anything else I’ve found.”

The dog yipped quietly, as though displeased that Castiel wasn’t paying him any attention. Castiel waved a hand in its direction.

“Go ahead, Tar. Water.”

The dog grasped a hand towel tied to the refrigerator handle and tugged. The door popped open with a sucking noise and the dog poked its nose inside, emerging a second later with a bottle of water clamped between its jaws. It deposited the bottle into Castiel’s outstretched hand, stub tail wagging a mile a minute.

“Good job,” Castiel said, and the dog turned away to nudge the refrigerator door closed. Castiel unscrewed the top of the water bottle and took a long drink. From that angle, the scarred part of his face was hidden, and Dean could see the barest hint of the man he’d met all those years ago. Memories of that day at the bookstore, of Castiel sitting behind his table, autographing books and smiling, pausing every now and again to take a sip of water from the bottle at his side, surfaced.

“I was going to tell you to help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” Castiel said, lowering his water bottle. “But I see I’m a little late.”

The spell broke, and Dean found himself very much in the present, with this new, more dickish version of Castiel.

“I wasn’t after your stash,” he said, as his Pop-Tarts bounced up from the toaster with more force than he was anticipating. One landed on the counter, and the other fell to the floor and burst apart, crumbs and strawberry filling spreading over the floor. The dog leapt forward, eyes shining as though he couldn’t believe his luck. At a quiet word from Castiel, the dog seemed to almost change directions in midair, returning to sit at Castiel’s side.

“The dog can have it,” Dean said, sliding the pastry on the counter onto a napkin. “I don’t mind.”

Castiel shook his head.

“His name’s Tar,” Castiel said. “And there’s no way I’d let him eat junk like that. Do you have any idea what’s in those things?”

Castiel wheeled himself forward and helped himself to a banana. Dean took a giant bite of his Pop-Tart, mainly to spite him.

“You know that dogs eat their own crap and lick their butts, right?” he said through his mouthful. “I saw him hauling ass up the hill out there. He definitely earned a treat. Hell, you look like you could use one, too.”

That last part slipped out before Dean could stop it, and Castiel glared at him over his banana. Dean felt he had a point, though. Up close, he could see that, though Castiel’s arms were ropey with muscle, but he looked too thin through the chest, and his face was almost gaunt. Not altogether surprising, considering the guy seemed to live off of beer, bananas, rice, and whatever drugs he had stockpiled in the house.

“Tar’s ten,” Castiel said, eyes narrowed. “For a dog of his size and breed, that’s getting up there. It’s important that he stays healthy. Do not feed him anything that I haven’t expressly told you to, understand? Or you can go ahead and find yourself another place to live.”

It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours, and Dean was already getting sick of Castiel’s bullshit.

“Don’t recall seeing that particular clause on that mountain of crazy I had to sign yesterday,” Dean said.

“Would you prefer…” Castiel paused, his hand clenching around his water bottle.

“Would I prefer… what?” Dean said.

“Prefer…” Castiel’s face started to go red, and his hands shook. The dog… Tar… turned to look at him with what could only be described as concern.

“You okay?” Dean asked.

Castiel’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. The plastic of his water bottle crackled as he gripped it harder. With no warning, he drew his hand back and flung the half-full bottle across the room. It didn’t come close to hitting Dean… Castiel seemed to not even be aiming for him, pivoting slightly to the right before releasing the bottle. It crashed into the far wall next to the back door, water spraying everywhere. Castiel reversed out of the room, Tar following just behind.

What the hell was that? Was Dean supposed to go after him? He debated for a minute or two, about the time it took him to finish his Pop-Tart, before deciding that yes, he should. He found him in the living room, his chair pushed as far into a corner as possible. Castiel muttered to himself, his head in his hands

Tar gave a warning growl as Dean approached, and Castiel raised his head, backing his chair several inches away from the wall.

“Enough, Tar,” he said. Tar quieted.

“Just making sure you’re all right, dude,” Dean said. “That was kinda weird, back there.”

Castiel took a deep breath and turned the wheelchair so that he faced Dean.

“Fine,” he said, his voice still a little shaky. “I’m fine. I’m—“ he looked down at his rumpled, still damp T-shirt. “I’m dirty. I should… I should go shower.”

“You, ah, you need help with that?” Dean asked, because Castiel was acting strange, and Dean wasn’t entirely sure of how the whole shower-taking thing worked to begin with.

Castiel’s eyes flashed, and he carefully schooled his features, his expression becoming hard and closed off once again.

“I’m going to go ahead and take that as a flirtation,” Castiel said, his voice crisp with derision. “Because I know you didn’t just imply that I’m some helpless invalid who can’t even manage to wash his own dick. I mean, I know a body like this is damn near irresistible, but, as I’m sure you’ll understand, jumping into the shower together on the first morning might give the wrong impression. Wouldn’t want to have to break your heart.”

And, without giving Dean a chance to respond or apologize, he pushed past him into the hallway, disappearing behind one of the closed doors beyond the kitchen.

******

Though it had been a while since Dean had worked on any cars but his own, he found it fairly easy to get back into the routine of the busy auto shop. He was reminded of summer days spent under one hood or another, while Bobby stood over him, bluntly pointing out when he was screwing up, and gruffly praising him when he did well. He remembered the warm nights spent gathered around the fire-pit in Bobby and Ellen’s backyard, as Ellen taught him the ideal technique for grilling a sirloin. But most of all, he thought about what it had been like to go to bed in the same room, in the same _bed_ , a bed all of his own, for months on end. What it had been like, knowing that, no matter what the next day brought, when it was over, he and Sam would be able to return to Bobby and Ellen’s, and they’d all sit down together for dinner (along with Jo, of course) and go to bed under the same roof.

Dean really did owe them a lot.

Especially now that he realized that it wasn’t always the greatest thing, knowing you had to go back to the same place every night. Dean tried not to think about what he was going to walk into after his shift; what new way Castiel would have found to make him feel like an idiot.

Dean sighed as he waited for the transmission fluid drain from the Buick he was working on. He supposed he couldn’t place all of the blame on Castiel. Sure, he was a surly bastard. Touchy, too. But Dean couldn’t deny that he had said some insensitive, boneheaded things in the few hours he’d known the guy. And every time he tried to fix it, he just wound up digging himself in deeper.

It so was not what Dean expected when he made the decision to find a place of his own.

After the Buick, Dean moved onto replacing the brakes on an aging Honda, and then it was a string of oil changes. By the time it was time to close up shop, Dean was pleasantly weary, the type of weary that comes from a day’s honest work, and his hands were stained with motor oil. He bid Bobby’s other employees goodbye and set about closing up the shop, falling into the old routine as if it had only been a few weeks, rather than over a decade since he’d worked at the garage.

After he’d locked both doors, he looked toward Bobby and Ellen’s house. Dusk had fallen, but the house was still completely dark. Ellen and Jo must have still been at the hospital. Dean checked his phone, and saw a text from Jo that had been received that afternoon.

_Bobby’s awake and grumpy as fuck. He says he doesn’t care, but I know he’d like to see you, if you have time after work._

Dean swiped his thumb across the message, deleting it. The last place he wanted to go was the hospital. Still, Bobby certainly deserved to know that his business was running smoothly in his absence. And Dean certainly wasn’t tactless enough to try and send an update by way of texting Jo. He had some sense of what was appropriate, no matter what Castiel thought.

And so it was a half hour later that Dean left the Impala in the visitor’s lot at Sioux Falls General. He felt bad showing up completely empty handed, so he’d stopped at the local hardware store on the way and picked up the most fully loaded ratcheting screwdriver he could find. Bobby hadn’t updated his tool collection in some years, and currently had an impressive collection of manual screwdrivers. Besides being quicker (and in Dean’s opinion, more fun) to use, Dean figured the ratcheting screwdriver would also be easier on Bobby.

A quick stop at the information desk revealed that the surgical recovery area was on the fifth floor. Dean took the stairs (he didn’t trust elevators) and tried to ignore the sweat that broke out over his forehead, and the way his heart started to race the longer he spent inside the building. He hadn’t been in a hospital since John died.

He heard Ellen’s raucous laugh the minute he emerged from the stairwell, and followed it to Bobby’s room. Ellen sat in a chair right on one side of Bobby’s bed, while Jo sat in a chair on the other side, her infant son in her arms. Her toddler daughter, Erin, batted a balloon made out of a plastic exam glove around the room, shrieking with joy whenever her slaps and kicks sent the balloon farther than she expected.

“Well, if it ain’t the prodigal son,” Bobby said, looking up as Dean entered the room, narrowly avoiding treading on Erin’s balloon.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean said.

“Come here, honey,” Ellen said, rising from her chair and pulling Dean into a hug, dragging his face down to her level so she could kiss his cheek.

“Good to see you, too, Ellen,” Dean said, ignoring Jo snickering from across the room.

Dean approached Bobby’s bed and tossed the crumpled paper bag on his lap.

“Thought you might like this,” he said.

Ellen motioned for him to take her empty chair, and he did. Bobby fumbled with the bag (he still seemed a little groggy) and finally pulled out the screwdriver.

“Now look here,” he said, turning to Jo and Ellen, brandishing the tool. “If you’re gonna insist on cluttering up my room, this what you should be buying, not that useless flower and balloon crap.”

Bobby waved a hand in the direction of the windowsill, where a bouquet of brightly colored daisies sat. A balloon featuring two fluffy, white kittens was attached to the flower pot.

“Erin picked those out,” said Jo.

Erin looked up at the sound of her name, and saw them all staring at the windowsill. She abandoned her balloon and ran over to Bobby’s bed, attempting to climb in. Ellen caught her around the waist and lifted her up so that she and Bobby were face to face.

“Did you like my present, Grandpa?” Erin asked, one of her black, tightly woven braids falling forward into her face.

“I—I sure did, Shortcake,” stammered Bobby, flipping the errant braid back into place. Ellen smirked over Erin’s head.

“Well, on that note,” Ellen said, shifting Erin to balance on her hip. “We should probably get going. Give you some time with Dean before they kick him out.”

“Yeah,” Jo said, rising and slinging a blue and yellow diaper bag over her shoulder. “Jake just texted. He just left Post, and said he’ll pick up a pizza for dinner.”

“Nice of him,” Ellen said. “Certainly a better idea than his last attempt at spaghetti, for sure. You’re welcome to stop by and have some, Dean.”

“Thanks, but I’m good,” Dean said.

“All right then, we’ll see you later,” Ellen said, and she, Jo, and kids left the room.

Bobby set the screwdriver and bag on his table tray. Dean looked up at the TV, where the local news was playing on mute. Bobby cleared his throat.

“Everything go okay, today?” he asked.

“Yeah, great,” Dean said. “Business has been good, huh?”

“Pretty good,” Bobby said.

“That new guy you hired… the skinny guy?”

“Garth,” Bobby said.

“Yeah, him,” Dean said. “He’s a little…”

“Odd?” Bobby said, with a chuckle.

“Odd’s a good word,” Dean said.

“He’s a good worker though. And never in a bad mood.”

“He hugged me at the end of the day.”

Bobby threw back his head and guffawed.

“Do I get to hear the joke?” said a voice from the doorway. A very familiar voice. One Dean hadn’t heard in years. Dean looked up.

“Sammy,” he said.

Sam walked into the room, handing Bobby a small, red gift bag.

“It’s Sam,” he said to Dean, claiming the empty seat on the other side of the bed. “Which you know perfectly well.”

Bobby ignored them both and peered into the bag. What he saw was enough to set him laughing again. He pulled out a ratcheting screwdriver, exactly the same as the one Dean bought.

“Just another case of great minds, I guess,” said Bobby, setting Sam’s screwdriver next to Dean’s on the roll table.

Sam grinned, and he looked so happy, so carefree, that Dean felt the old anger rise up within him. He turned away, but kept tabs on Sam with his peripheral vision. Sam leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs as he looked around the room.

“I always wondered what it was like in one of these things,” he said. “It’s nicer than I thought. The flat-screen TV is cool.

Dean couldn’t hold back.

“If you were so damn curious about hospital rooms, you could have showed up when I called you about Dad.”

Sam stared at his hands.

“Dean…”

“ ‘Course, his room wasn’t as fancy as this. And he had to share it with some _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_ reject who kept talking to his pillow like it was some kind of reporter, interviewing him. That’s what you get when you’re broke with no insurance.”

“Dad had no one to blame for that but himself,” Sam said, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“He was dying, Sammy! He was dying, and the only thing… the only _person_ he asked for was you! And you couldn’t even give him that, could you?” Dean knew he was getting loud, but he didn’t care. He noticed Bobby trying to catch his eye, but refused to look at him.

“He’s the one who told me to leave!” Sam said, the volume of his voice increasing in response to Dean’s. “He’s the one who told me to never come back!”

“Boys!” said Bobby, sharply, and they both turned to look at him. “This ain’t the time or place—“

He was interrupted by a nurse poking her head in the door.

“Everything okay in here?” she asked.

Dean glared at Sam, who held his gaze unwaveringly.

“We’re fine,” said Bobby. “Just a little argument. Sorry for the disturbance.”

“I understand,” said the nurse. “But I just have to warn you that if it happens again, I’ll have to ask your visitors to leave. We can’t risk bothering the other patients.”

“Don’t worry,” said Dean, getting to his feet. “I was just leaving.”

“Don’t be like that,” said Bobby.

“It’s fine,” said Dean. “I’ll come by later. When it’s less crowded.”

******

Dean stopped at the grocery store on his way back to Castiel’s. He heard Tar barking as he let himself inside, but Castiel must have quickly shushed him, for he stopped pretty soon after Dean closed the front door. The main floor was mostly dark, with just a light shining from the kitchen.

Castiel sat at the kitchen table, in much the same position Dean found him in the previous night, except he was mostly upright this time. The table was still covered in empty beer bottles, and several prescription vials sat off to the side. The laptop was open, and Dean saw Castiel leaning forward, frowning at the screen, as he entered the room.

“Hello, Dean,” said Castiel, looking up with a quick glance of acknowledgement.

“Hi, Mr. Novak. Castiel,” said Dean, setting his two grocery bags on the counter.

“You can call me Cas. Mr. Novak is a bit formal for the situation, and almost no one uses my full name.”

“Meg does,” said Dean, before he could stop himself. To his surprise, Castiel… Cas… gave a small, half smile.

“Yes, well, Meg is an exception to most rules,” he said.

“Fine. Hey, Cas, how’s it going?” Dean said, shoving a pack of frozen burritos, a bag of chicken nuggets, and some tater tots into the freezer.

Cas watched him with an expression of mild disgust, but didn’t comment.

“Is this okay?” Dean asked, indicating the pack of cold cuts he was about to put in the refrigerator.

“It said shared kitchen in the ad,” Cas said, returning his attention to his computer, and taking a long pull from one of the beer bottles as he did. Tar rested his chin on his crossed paws and watched Dean from beneath the table, his expression just as contemptuous as his owner’s.

Dean finished unpacking his groceries and fixed himself a sandwich. Without a word, Cas shoved some beer bottles to the side, clearing a place for Dean at the table. Dean had been planning on taking his meal upstairs; however, this was almost certainly the most civil Cas had been to Dean since he’d arrived the previous evening. It seemed stupid not to take advantage of it.

“Thanks,” Dean said, taking the seat. “You hungry? There’s plenty of sandwich stuff, if you want.”

“I already ate,” Cas said, and yeah, Dean had seen a fresh banana peel in the trash when he’d disposed of the mess he’d made preparing his sandwich.

“Just checking to see if you wanted something more substantial that fruit,” Dean said.

“Nope,” Cas said. He flipped his laptop closed and gave it a shove, causing a few of beer bottles to clank together. Cas rubbed at the bridge of his nose and reached for one of the pill vials. They were unmarked, Dean realized, as Cas selected one and tipped several capsules into his hand.

“Rough day?” Dean asked. “Mine was kind of shitty, too.”

“Most things in this world don’t work. Aspirin do,” quoted Cas, tossing the pills into his mouth and chasing them with a swig of beer. “Want some?”

Dean shook his head, almost one hundred percent positive that whatever was in the vials, it definitely wasn’t Aspirin.

“Vonnegut,” he said, in reference to Cas’ quote.

“Vonnegut,” confirmed Cas, selecting more pills, this time from a different vial. Dean noticed he was less coordinated than he’d been when Dean had first arrived, nearly spilling his beer when he set it back on the table after swallowing his next handful of meds.

“Take it easy,” said Dean.

“Mind your business,” mumbled Cas, managing to right the beer bottle just in time. He removed his hand slowly, his movements deliberate.

“It kind of is my business when I come down to find you passed out in what you yourself just said is a shared kitchen, and your dog has taken it upon himself to attack anyone who walks through the door,” Dean said.

“Tar isn’t going to do anything,” said Cas.

“How would you know?”

“Because I fucking trained him myself, all right? I know what he’s capable of.”

They were getting off track. It wasn’t so much the dog that bothered Dean; it was the situation in general. The feeling of helplessness of having to watch someone do that to themselves, knowing there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. It was knowing that it was all too easy to fuck up, and how quickly things could go from merely disgusting to life threatening.

“Forget the dog for a second. How about you get it together enough so I don’t have to worry about finding your O.D.’d self every time I want a midnight snack.”

“How about this, Dean?” said Cas, pushing himself away from the table. “You focus you, and I’ll focus on me, and that way we’ll keep out of each others’ shit. Sound good?”


	4. Chapter 4

Dean watched Cas wheel himself out of the room and disappear into his bedroom, Tar, as always, by his side.

“Dammit,” he muttered, as he heard the door shut with a snap.

Dean finished his sandwich and cleaned up. Cas’ bedroom door never opened, and Dean didn’t hear anything as he walked past it on his way up to his apartment. Once upstairs, Dean retrieved his guitar and dropped down onto his bed. He shouldn’t have tried to have that particular conversation with Cas when Cas was drunk or stoned… most likely a combination of both. But, then again, when wasn’t the guy drunk or stoned?

Dean’s fingers roamed over the guitar strings, plucking out a familiar melody that he couldn’t quite place. He hummed along, not really able to remember the lyrics or where he’d heard the song before. He liked the way the notes flowed together, though. He played the melody through several times, each time sounding a little better than the last, before sleep finally overcame him.

******

Dean woke the next morning with a start, the guitar sliding off the bed and landing with a muffled thump on the carpeted floor. Fuck. He’d forgotten to set his alarm. Dean fumbled for his phone. He couldn’t find it. He struggled to his feet and staggered over to the window, pulling the curtains aside and looking out. The sun was just rising, which meant he wasn’t irredeemably late.

Dean was about to let the curtain fall closed and get ready when he saw Cas and Tar making their way up the hill, just as they had the morning before. The pace seemed a lot slower this time, though. Instead of running ahead, Tar remained at Cas’ side, despite what appeared to be repeated attempts on Cas’ part to wave the dog forward. Dean winced as one of Cas’ hands slipped off the push ring on the wheel, and the chair swung around so fast that Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if Cas didn’t have whiplash.

Dean didn’t know how the dog could possibly understand what was going on, but Tar immediately jumped forward, placing himself in front of the chair. Dean barely stopped himself from calling out a warning… with the weight of the chair and Cas, plus the momentum of it rolling down the hill, the dog would be crushed.

Cas managed to engage the brakes just before the chair made contact with Tar. He sat, chest heaving, staring off into the distance for a few seconds, while Tar rested his head in Cas’ lap. Dean had just made the decision to go down and offer to help, when Cas placed his hands back on the push rings, said something that caused Tar to skitter away, and turned the chair around. He paused for just a moment to catch his breath, and then began laboriously making his way up the hill once again.

Dean closed the curtains, deciding that if Cas hadn’t made it back by the time Dean had taken a quick shower, he’d go out there and push him up the hill himself, whether Cas liked it or not.

Ten minutes later, Dean was showered and dressed, and still, after a whirlwind search of his apartment, unable to find his phone. A glance out the window revealed Cas and Tar had just crested the top of the hill. Satisfied that landlord and dog would both probably make it back in one piece, Dean descended the stairs, keeping an eye out of his phone.

He finally found it on the kitchen table, next to Cas’ charging laptop. As with the morning before, the table had been cleared of all of the debris left the previous evening. Cas had his faults, to be sure, but at least the man wasn’t a slob. Dean grabbed a frozen burrito from the freezer and tossed it in the microwave. While he waited for it to heat up, he checked the garage’s email.

The microwaved beeped just as Dean finished reading. Dean set his phone aside, glad that the emails had consisted only of requests for service and delivery notices. He wasn’t looking forward to having to deal with complaints. Customer service wasn’t really his thing.

He’d just taken a huge bite of his burrito when he heard the front door slam, and Tar’s toenails clicking down the hallway. Cas appeared in the kitchen doorway several moments later. He looked like shit; soaked in sweat, pale, dark circles beneath his eyes. He’d barely entered the room before a hand flew up to his mouth.

“What’s that smell?” he said, awkwardly steering his chair one handed toward the bathroom. The chair bumped into the doorframe on the way in, and Dean heard a muffled curse. A second later, he heard the sound of vomiting. Dean grimaced and set his burrito down. He waited until the sound of retching stopped, and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.

“I feel you, man,” Dean said, stopping in the bathroom doorway. “Hangover’s not a fun way to start the day. Your little workout probably just made it worse…” he trailed off, finally getting a good look at Cas as he pivoted away from the sink and started blindly yanking open drawers, his eyes mostly closed. He hadn’t even bothered to turn the bathroom light on.

Finally, Cas found what he was looking for as he opened a drawer stuffed full of unmarked prescription vials. He grabbed a handful, cracking his eyes open to assess each bottle’s contents. He discarded several before finding what he was looking for, dumping several pills into a shaking hand and swallowing them dry. He leaned against the backrest of his chair, eyes closed, still breathing hard, sweat trickling down his forehead, and the orange bottle clutched in his hand like a lifeline.

“Hey,” Dean said, softly, because whatever was going on with Cas wasn’t like any hangover he’d ever seen, and he was starting to get a little worried.

Cas didn’t pay any attention to Dean. He fished around in the drawer again, and selected a few more vials, ignoring the ones he’d scattered on the floor, and dumped them into his lap. He started wheeling himself toward the door.

“Anything I can do?” Dean asked.

“You can get the fuck out of my way.”

Dean jumped aside as Cas moved out the door.

“I got you some water,” Dean said, dropping the bottle in Cas’ lap as he passed.

Cas grunted but didn’t slow his pace. He and Tar disappeared into Cas’ bedroom. Dean slowly approached the door. There wasn’t really any noise coming from within, not even any commands to the dog. Dean listened a little longer, and was about to turn away when he heard two muted thumps.

“Cas?” Dean called. “Everything okay in there?”

There was no response. Dean hovered outside the door, growing more and more nervous. He looked down at his phone. He was fast heading toward inescapably late. And there was an early morning drop-off at the garage from one of Bobby’s best clients. But he couldn’t just leave if something really was wrong with Cas. Dean knocked on the door.

“Answer me, Cas, or I’m coming in.”

A few seconds passed without and answer, and then,

“Don’t ask… stupid questions,” He spoke in a jerky, halting manner, still sounding out of breath.

“Do you need some help?” Dean asked. “Or, you want me to call someone?”

“Go… fuck yourself.”

Okay then. Dean waited a little while longer to see if Cas would say anything else. He didn’t.

******

Dean heard the doorbell ding, signaling that a customer had entered. He sighed, looking up from the engine he was working on, and flicked his eyes toward the clock at the back of the garage. It was almost closing time, and he hadn’t scheduled any other pick-ups for the rest of the day. Could be a walk-in… cars seemed to have the tendency to break down in the last minutes before the shop closed. Dean remembered that from his other stints working the garage. He nodded at Garth, who was just about to clock out.

“Check on that for me?” he asked.

“Sure thing, Dean!” Garth said, practically skipping out to the front desk.

Dean took a moment to marvel at the dude’s seemingly endless enthusiasm, and got back to work. He was so involved in his task that he didn’t notice that Garth failed to return from the customer area. He didn’t look up again until he heard Sam speaking at his left.

“Hey, Dean.”

Dean jumped a little, and one of his tools fell to the concrete floor with a clang.

“Sorry,” Sam said, bending over to retrieve the head bolt socket driver.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, holding a hand out.

But Sam didn’t give the tool up right away, instead fiddling with it as though he’d never seen one before. Which Dean knew was not the case.

“What are you doing here, Sammy?” he said, tacking on the – _my_ because he knew it would piss Sam off. Sure enough, Sam stiffened, and dropped the driver back into Dean’s tool kit.

“I just came from visiting Bobby,” Sam said.

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s doing well,” Sam said. “They’re going to release him tomorrow morning, actually. He asked me to tell you.”

“Didn’t expect he’d be back looming over my shoulder so soon,” Dean said, resuming work on the engine.

“Well, I don’t think he’ll be up to coming down to the shop just yet,” Sam said. “But he’s healing very well. His doctor is impressed. If he keeps up at this rate, he’ll be able to get back to work earlier than they thought.”

“Great,” Dean said. “Means I can get a move on quicker. Get out of everyone’s hair.”

Sam sighed.

“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about last night.”

“Yeah, right,” Dean said. “Bobby put you up to this?”

“No.”

Dean stared at him.

“Okay,” Sam said. “Well, he might have mentioned something… but I truly am sorry, Dean. I don’t want to fight with you. I’d like to be able to spend some time—“

“I don’t think so,” Dean said.

“Come on, Dean. You’re my brother.”

Dean straightened up and wiped his hands on a cloth.

“Funny, that never seemed to matter to you before.”

Sam flinched as though he’d been struck. And damn it, Dean hated that hurt puppy expression. Hated it. He turned away and began packing away his tools.

“The thing is,” he found himself saying, “Is that I’m busy, you know? I got the garage to run, and this place I’m staying at… one of the conditions of the lease is that I have to help out with some repairs. And if Bobby recovers as fast as you say he’s going to, then I have even less time to get this shit done than I thought.”

Sam seemed to understand the intent behind Dean’s change of topic, and dropped the escalating fight.

“Where are you staying, anyway?” he asked, instead.

“Couple miles away,” Dean said. “Older neighborhood. I get the top floor of an old Victorian.”

“Cool,” Sam said. “Landlord a little old lady? Place kind of getting away from her?”

“Something like that,” Dean said.

“You know, I could help you out with the repairs on the weekends,” Sam said. “I could bring the girls. Little old ladies like kids, right?”

“Not this one,” Dean said, quickly. “Actually… _she’s_ … kind of a hermit. Likes to keep to herself. She wouldn’t like anyone else hanging around.”

“Really,” Sam said, clearly skeptical.

“Really.” Dean looked at the clock. “So. Yeah. Hate to cut this short, but I gotta close up.”

*******

It was dark by the time Dean made it back to Cas’. He parked the Impala and rolled the windows up. It was unseasonably warm for October, and Dean lingered for a bit next to the car, just looking up at the few stars dotting the night sky.

“Nice car,” Cas said, from where he’d positioned his wheelchair on the porch. He held a joint loosely between his fingers, and Tar lay just to his left.

“Thanks,” Dean said, a little uncertain. He moved closer, squinting through the gloom, trying to get a feel for Cas’ condition.

Cas took a long drag, his profile illuminated by the red glow of the ember. With so little light, his scars weren’t visible, and for once Dean didn’t have to worry about where his eyes were lingering. Cas held in the smoke for what seemed like forever, then exhaled slowly.

“Impala, right? ’66?” he said.

“’67,” Dean corrected. Cas had some epic sex hair going on, and the small breeze wasn’t making it any easier for Dean to ignore. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know you were interested in cars.”

“I’m not,” Cas said. “Did some research for a book a while back. Fascinating, isn’t it, how random, useless facts sometimes stick in your mind. And other, more important things don’t?”

Dean climbed the ramp and stepped onto the porch. Up close, he could see that, even in the dim light, Cas still looked a little pale. His face no longer seemed pinched in pain, and though he was obviously stoned, he didn’t appear to be noticeably under the effect of any other drugs.

“What are you doing, sitting out here alone in the dark?” asked Dean.

Cas indicated his joint.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“So, you’re okay, then? You kinda had me a little worried this morning.”

“Like I said before, Dean, mind your business, and leave me to mine,” Cas said. “It was just a headache.”

“Looked like one motherfucker of a headache,” Dean said.

Cas shrugged and expelled another mouthful of smoke, looking over Dean’s shoulder at the Impala and then up at the sky.

“Nice night,” he said, bringing the joint to his lips again.

“Yeah,” agreed Dean, grudgingly accepting that that was all Cas was going to say on the subject.

“Indian summer. It won’t last.” Cas directed his gaze back to Dean. “You should probably get started on the roof before it gets cold again.”

******

Dean spent the next two weeks using every bit of free time he had to patch the roof. He even climbed up on nights after putting in a full day at the garage, though Cas protested the first time, saying he wanted the roof fixed, not Dean dead from trying to crawl around up there in the dark. Dean brushed aside Cas’ concern and jury-rigged a few flashlights to enable him to see what he was doing.

The next day, he came home from the garage to find a fortune’s worth of lighting equipment jumbled on Cas’ porch, as well as several tools that Dean had hoped to be able to get by without, but would make the work infinitely easier. When Dean attempted to thank Cas for his generosity (he’d really gone all out… purchased way more than the bare minimum Dean would have asked for to get the job done… if Cas had given Dean the opportunity to ask) Cas just muttered that there wasn’t enough room in the house for two wheelchairs and tossed back another handful of pills.

Dean had given a mental shrug at that. Cas noticed things. Dean wasn’t quite sure how he managed it, given he seemed so messed up the majority of the time, but he was one of the most observant people Dean had ever met. He kept tabs on the supplies Dean used when working on the house, and Dean never had to ask for anything to be replaced. If he needed something, it was always just there the next day. It didn’t only apply to the home repair stuff. Cas must have observed the large quantities of take-out coffee cups piling up in the trash, for one day a coffee maker and its assorted paraphernalia appeared in the kitchen. Damn thing made awesome coffee, too.

In contrast, Dean felt woefully uninformed when it came to Cas. From what he could see, Cas pretty much always followed the same routine. He rose early and took Tar for a run up the hill every day. The rest of the day he spent working at his computer, looking for all the world like he was writing, though Meg had been adamant that Cas hadn’t written a word in years. As he worked, he steadily consumed alcohol, pot, and pills in varying quantities and combinations. He took several breaks throughout the day to take Tar out for exercise and to potter around the house. Dean was no expert, but for a pill popping stoner, Cas seemed awfully invested in keeping his place clean. He would work late into the night, but other than that one time, Dean never found him passed out in the kitchen. Or anywhere else, for that matter. There also were no further episodes of water bottle throwing or strange “headaches.” They really didn’t interact much at all, each of them focusing on their own issues and not interfering with the other. It certainly wasn’t what Dean expected when he found out he’d be living with Castiel Novak, but it worked. For the most part.

In fact, life in Sioux Falls was proving to be a lot less awful than Dean had initially anticipated. He worked long hours at the garage, and, thanks to Ellen, Bobby didn’t interfere much at all. Dean always made sure to visit him after he closed for the day, to keep him in the loop. Sometimes Dean happened to meet Sam there, and sometimes not. The times they did meet, they managed to keep things civil. Jo and the kids were usually around, along with Jake, who was preparing for a long deployment and was trying to spend as much time with the family as he could in the meantime. The resultant chaos wasn’t quite so bad now that Dean had somewhere to escape to.

All in all, he realized with some surprise, he was content.

******

Cas was right about the nice weather not lasting. Still, Dean was able to finish patching the roof in just a week, and by the time it started getting cold and rainy, he was working on inside repairs.

Halloween happened to fall on a Friday that year, and from his position up in the attic resealing windows, Dean could see the streets teeming with kids in costumes, some chaperoned by parents, and others running amok in giant packs. Most of the front doors of the houses on the street were illuminated by shining porch lights. Only Cas’ was conspicuously dark.

Dean had asked Cas about it the previous day, if he should pick up some candy or something on the way home from the garage. Cas had just laughed (Dean wished he’d never gone to that damn book signing and heard what Cas’ laugh really sounded like, because every time he heard that pained, mirthless sound erupt from Cas’ throat, he felt sick) and said that he wasn’t really in the business of traumatizing kids. Dean hadn’t been able to get much more out of him than that. It had been one of Cas’ bad nights, and he’d barely been coherent when Dean initially asked the question.

Dean took a break from his task and leaned against the window frame, watching as shrieking kids ran from house to house, giving Cas’ place a wide berth. Pinpoint, white snowflakes started to fall, illuminated by the street lamps and porch lights. The kids didn’t seem to mind. South Dakota natives, all of them, they were used to the early winters, and resigned to jackets and sweatpants being incorporated into their costumes. Dean smiled as he remembered the few times he and Sam had stayed with Bobby for Halloween. The cold and snow only seemed to add to the fun, to make everything a little more eerie. Snow-covered jackolanterns were downright terrifying.

Dean turned away from the window and got back to work. Over the course of the evening, he heard the doorbell ring several times. Each time, Tar managed a single, warning bark before Cas shushed him. At one point, there was a flurry of doorbell ringing, to the point that Dean contorted himself trying to get a view of the porch from the front window of the attic. He could just see a group of much older kids, teenagers at least, standing in a huddle just beyond the ramp. Dean cracked open the window and was about to tell them to get lost, when a series of loud, deep barks sounded from below. Cas must have gotten sick of them and decided let Tar make an impression.

The whole house shook as Tar threw himself against the door, his booming barks most likely echoing throughout the whole neighborhood.

“Holy shit,” said the kid in front. He jumped away from the door, crashing into his friends, and they all stumbled down the ramp before running away.

Dean snickered. Cas was such a dick sometimes. Dean checked his phone and saw it was nearly ten. It had been a long day at the garage, and he’d started work on the windows right away after getting back to the house. Dean put his tools away and decided to call it a night. Besides being tired, he was also starving. He clattered down the rickety attic steps, breezed through his dark and empty apartment, and continued down the staircase to the main floor.

Cas sat at the kitchen table with his laptop, like most nights. Tar lay at his feet. Both of them looked up as Dean entered.

“Hey, guys,” Dean said, wondering when he’d started including Tar in his greetings to Cas.

Cas answered with his customary, “Hello, Dean.” Tar merely stretched and rolled over onto his side.

Dean pulled a Hungry Man Dinner out of the freezer and popped it into the microwave. A muscle twitched in Cas’ face, and Dean fought back a smile. As per their agreement to mind their own business, Cas couldn’t comment on Dean’s eating habits. Of course, the idea of Cas lecturing anyone on proper nutrition was hilarious. Bananas might be healthier than Hungry Man one on one, but Dean was pretty sure they weren’t meant to be a person’s sole means of sustenance. And then, of course, there were the drugs and alcohol.

The microwave beeped, and Dean sat down at the table with his meal.

“Got some pranksters in the neighborhood?” said Dean. “I saw them about piss their pants when you let Tar charge the door.”

Cas shrugged. He didn’t seem too perturbed by it.

“They come every year,” he said. “Seems like they should have graduated high school by now.”

“They only bother you on Halloween?” Dean said.

“Yes,” Cas said. “The grand finale usually takes place a little later. They like to T.P. the big trees out front. Once, they egged the garage.”

“You ever call the cops?”

Cas shook his head.

“Getting the police involved would be a lot more trouble than it’s worth for one day a year of having fun with the neighborhood freak. I’d have to go down to the station and file a report, and try to identify the little bastards if they ever caught anyone. It’s always dark; I’ve never even seen their faces. This year, at least, I’ve got you to clean up the mess.”

Dean forked some fried chicken into his mouth and rolled his eyes. Cas winked as he closed his laptop pushed back from the table.

“Come on, Tar,” he said. “Last chance for the night.”

Tar trotted ahead of him to the back door, and they both went out onto the back porch. Dean continued eating, but couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting over to the computer. He was so curious about what Cas was working on, but certainly wasn’t about to ask. If it was a new novel, though… that would be huge. Depending on whether Dean went by Meg or the publishing history, it had been between four and seven years since the last book. If it was a new book, Dean wondered if there was any possibility of Cas allowing him to read it before he left. He thought of the anger and misery in Cas’ eyes as he’d ripped up the signed copy of _Fallen_ , and chastised himself for even thinking of something so stupid.

Dean’s musings were interrupted by a several thumps against the side of the house, and Cas’ enraged shout.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Another volley of thumps, and again, from Cas,

“Get back here, you little shits!”

Dean abandoned his food and ran out the back door just in time to see Cas hurtling himself down the ramp. His chair listed violently to one side as he started moving across the rocky, uneven ground of the backyard, but he seemed not to notice, continuing to propel himself forward as fast as he could. Tar ran ahead. Dean looked in that direction and saw what appeared to be the same group of boys from earlier, only this time whey were holding what looked like assault rifles. One of them pointed his gun at Tar’s approaching figure and fired.

“No!” yelled Cas, as Tar squealed in pain.

The gun hadn’t really made much of a noise, though. All Dean really heard was a whoosh of air and the smack of something making contact with Tar. Tar didn’t fall, but seemed nervous, halting his pursuit and looking back to Cas. Cas kept moving forward, hampered slightly by the rough terrain. The whole group lifted their guns or whatever they were, and the one who’d shot at Tar counted to three. At the end of the count, they all fired.

“Hey!” roared Dean, leaping over the porch rail and sprinting toward them.

Cas gave a startled cry as whatever they’d shot at him hit with a series of loud, wet, thwacks. At the same time, his wheelchair tipped to the side as it encountered a fairly steep slant of the earth. Cas seemed too shocked and distracted to react in time, and the whole thing crashed onto its side, spilling Cas out onto the ground with enough force to send him rolling a few feet away.

The whole group cheered in triumph, not noticing Dean advancing on them until he was just a yard or so away. One of them fired off a wild shot that stung as it hit Dean in the shoulder. It was enough of a diversion to halt Dean’s momentum, and he lost track of the kids as they took off into the night, one of them calling,

“See ya next year, freak!”

Dean felt wetness on his shoulder, and he quickly put a hand up to investigate. It was cold, which seemed odd, and when he brought his hand in front of his face, he could see, even in the weak light of the moon, that it was bright green.

“Paintballs. Fuck.”

He heard a groan from behind, and turned around to see Cas propped up on his elbows, slowly dragging himself across the slushy ground to his chair. One of the wheels was still slowly rotating.

“Here, Cas, let me,” said Dean.

They reached the wheelchair at the same time, and Cas glared at Dean until he took a step back. Cas’ mouth hung open as he took deep, ragged breaths. He grasped the chair with one hand and managed to get it upright somehow, engaging the brakes and then shaking it lightly to ensure it was steady.

Dean moved closer, offering his hand. Cas shoved him away, eyes wild and disoriented. His shirt and pants were soaked, and the entire right side of his face (the scarred side) was stained purple.

“Come on, Cas, let me help,” said Dean.

Cas grunted and hitched himself up further on his elbows, extending one arm. It was the arm farthest away from Dean, and Dean made to move to Cas’ other side. Tar beat him to it, standing tall and very still just inches from Cas. Cas ran one hand down the length of Tar’s back once, twice, three times, then placed his hand over Tar’s shoulders and used the other to grab the seat of the wheelchair. Slowly, painstakingly, he heaved himself up onto the chair, putting most of his weight on the chair side, only using Tar for stability.

Dean waited while he settled himself, and reached for the handles once Cas released the brakes. Cas made a rough sound in the back of his throat and pushed Dean away again. Dean stepped back and gave him space, watching as Cas turned the chair around and began slowly, carefully, making his way back to the house. Tar walked quietly at Cas’ side.

As they drew closer to the house, Dean noticed Cas paying less attention to where he was steering the chair. He seemed to be focusing on the porch rail instead. Dean followed his gaze and saw lurid splotches of color standing out against the dull, peeling paint; not only on the porch rail, but on the wall of the house behind it as well.

Cas’ arms shook as he struggled to push himself up the ramp on the porch, and he grimaced and put a hand to his right side after clearing the threshold of the kitchen door.

“You need to call the police,” Dean said. “This is more than just some stupid Halloween prank.”

Cas didn’t respond, wheeling past Dean to grab some hand towels from the cupboard closest to the sink.

“Are you listening to me?” Dean said, trying to quell his annoyance. He didn’t expect Cas to hang on his every word, but be could at least acknowledge that Dean was trying to help.

Cas moved closer to the sink and extended one hand to turn the faucet on. The kitchen hadn’t been modified to accommodate someone in a wheelchair, and the faucet was very nearly too far for Cas to reach. Most days, he was able to stretch beyond what Dean thought was humanly possible for a guy sitting in a chair, and get the job done.

This time, as Dean watched, Cas gave a pained gasp and checked himself after only lifting his arm a few inches. The towels fell to the ground, and Cas’ chair bumped into the cabinets.

“Whoa, hey,” said Dean, forgetting, for a moment, Cas’ aversion to any form of assistance, and retrieving the towels.

As he straightened, he was met by Cas’ irate gaze. Fuck him, Dean decided. He was pissed, too.

“You need to see a doctor,” Dean said, moving the towels just out of Cas’ reach as he made a grab for them. “And you need to call the police. Understand?”

Cas set his jaw and held out his hand.

“Uh uh,” Dean said, taking a step back. “Not until you tell me what—“

“P- p- panomil,” Cas choked out, and his face immediately flushed red. It clashed horribly with the purple paint streaked over his cheek.

“Pano what?” Dean said. “What the hell are you talking about? Are you going to call the police, or not?”

Cas’ mouth opened and closed, and his hands clenched into fists. Dean leaned forward.

“Hey,” he said, lowering his voice. “Are you okay? Did… did you hit your head, or something?”

Cas seized the opportunity to snatch the towels out of Dean’s hand and steer the chair away. He disappeared into the bathroom, and Dean heard the shower turn on. A minute or so later, Cas emerged, tossing a purpled stained towel into a corner, his face clean. He beckoned to Tar, who’d been shadowing his every move, and Tar positioned himself in front of Cas’ chair. Cas lifted another towel and began working on a lime green splotch of color on Tar’s left shoulder.

“Would you forget about the damn dog for a second?” Dean said. “Something’s not right with you.”

Cas paused long enough to give Dean the finger without looking up, then went back to cleaning Tar’s coat. Dean debated just calling for an ambulance himself… head injuries weren’t something to fuck around with, and Cas was talking jibberish and acting odd.

Dean moved closer and openly stared at Cas, not caring if it pissed Cas off. He couldn’t see any visible signs that Cas had hurt his head in the fall. Cas himself actually seemed pretty lucid… certainly not confused or afraid. If anything, he seemed frustrated and angry. And suddenly, a memory popped into Dean’s head from the morning after he’d arrived at the house. He and Cas had gotten into an argument about Tar, and something similar had happened. Cas stopped talking and seemed upset. Soon after, he was fine.

Cas acted as though Dean wasn’t even in the room, focusing all of his attention on Tar. He scrubbed at the green paint, removing all traces of it from Tar’s glossy coat. He then gently ran his hands over Tar’s whole body, checking for other injuries. The process seemed to calm them both, and by the time Cas finally sat back in his chair, Tar’s body had relaxed and his tongue lolled. The wildness had gone from Cas’s eyes, and he took a deep breath.

“You gonna talk to me now?” Dean said.

“You… are a patronizing… ass… assbutt.” Cas said slowly, tossing the towels he’d used on Tar on top of the one he’d used on himself.

“Assbutt?” Dean repeated.

Cas did the smallest of double takes; it seemed that wasn’t quite what Cas meant to say, but it also seemed he didn’t want to admit it.

“Assbutt,” Cas said. “That’s you.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Dean said. “You sure you don’t want to get checked out by a doctor?”

Cas turned his chair in the direction of his bedroom. He gave a quiet hiss, and curled his right arm around his side at the movement.

“At least let me make sure your ribs aren’t broken,” Dean said.

With what looked to be a herculean effort, Cas placed his right hand back on the push ring and propelled himself into the bedroom with two strong thrusts. Dean tried to follow, but at Cas’ command, Tar reared up on his hind legs and hit the door with his front paws, effectively slamming it in Dean’s face.


End file.
